Lost Time
by kitkatkelly
Summary: Extention of TSoT: Months after the Prince leaves Farah, chance brings him back to India. Confronted with his memory, Farah must choose between continuing her ordinary life or chasing the ghost of a dream. Switches between POVs of Farah and the Prince.
1. Stranger

Stranger

I believe I saw him in my dreams before he came to me. I dreamed of many things in those days—strange marvels as foreign to me as they were inexplicable. A dangerous journey, an urgent purpose… I travelled swiftly through a deadly paradise, always with him by my side. Images flashed, pushing themselves at me, and somehow I knew they were important. A sword—no, a dagger—sand, sand swirling everywhere. A dagger of sand—suddenly I recognized it. In trembling fingers I grasped the legendary Dagger of Time. But how—

And so I would awaken, and with my first gasp, reality would be sucked back into place around me. A glance around my familiar bedchambers would calm the mad tempest of my imagination, and all would be as before.

That night was warm, and the stickiness in the usually dry air promised rain. I chose to leave the balcony windows open, with only the light curtains protecting me from the danger of the Unknown outside.

My dreams that night were chaotic, but possessed of an urgency which alarmed me. Scenes and images were thrown at me faster than I could comprehend them, rapidly chasing each other toward some great goal I was too dizzy to see. I fell, light and graceful as a dancer, while a voice screamed my name. My own sharp breath awoke me once again. The dream world dissolved around me. But a few pictures lingered stubbornly. A dagger—sand—his face, shouting my name—

A figure appeared on my balcony as if slipping out of a fold in the thick night air. I rose, feeling as though I was still dreaming, and none of this was real.

A strong hand gripped my shoulder. Firm but gentle, its warmth and light pressure convinced me that this was no dream. I looked into his face, knowing whom I would see. Yet I was still amazed to see him—this fancy of my dreams, standing here before me.

"Do not be afraid." Curiously, I was not. His presence filled me with wonder, not fear, even though he was a stranger and an intruder. He thrust something at me. "This belongs to you."

At the sight of the weapon, a sharp wave of terror hit me. I staggered back. "The Dagger of Time! But it is locked away within my father's treasure vaults! How did you—"

He did not reply. A strange look was in his eye, as if he was not really seeing me, but rather remembering something far away. His face revealed a perplexing mixture of emotions—sorrow, blended with relief, and all masked by a feeling of restraint. It seemed almost as if I reminded him of something he had lost.

Without warning, he spoke:

"Most people think time is like a river, that flows swift and sure in one direction. But I have seen the face of time, and I can tell you—they are wrong. Time is an ocean in a storm.

"You may wonder who I am, or why I say this."

I felt as if I would burst if I did not know.

"Sit down, and I will tell you a tale like none that you have ever heard."

I did so, slowly, never taking my eyes off him. He could not have been more than twenty years old—scarcely beyond my eighteen years. Yet the pain etched in his face could have been that of a much older man, one who has lost the thing he values above all else. The joy had been stolen from his eyes, leaving them dark and empty.

"Know first: I am the son of Sharaman, the mighty king of Persia…"

A Persian prince? The enemy, in my own bedchambers! Why had I not been more cautious? Infuriated—whether with him, or with myself for carelessly indulging my curiosity, I did not know—I rose, prepared to call in the guards to arrest the villain.

He read the intent on my face, but continued hurriedly on. His next words so arrested my attention that I could not help but be drawn deeper into his strange tale. He spoke of a battle between our countries, a swift attack on India, as if it had occurred only yesterday—a war which had clearly never been waged; although my father and his advisors had had recent suspicions concerning the Persians' intentions.

He described the beauty and majesty of the very city in India where I resided, and the hidden treasure vaults of this same palace—my home, in which he held me captivated, beyond escape, like a snake charmer. He told me of the honour and glory he sought, stirring glowing embers in my soul. Desire began to burn within me as I felt myself sinking helplessly into his words.


	2. Lost

A/N: I find it easier to write in Farah's voice, so later chapters will probably be mostly from her POV.

* * *

Lost

When I saw her, I nearly wept—tears of joy, that my Farah was alive again, but also tears of grief. I had lost my beloved. She could not possibly remember me.

How I ached to hold her. The desire for her was like a dull knife thrust into my back. Each glance of hers twisted it, each word drove it slightly deeper, yet also wrenched me closer to her. Water felt coarse to my fingertips as I remembered the silk of her touch, which rivalled the exquisite textiles of her native land. How sweetly supple she had been in my hands in the caverns beneath the sultan's palace, how lithe and lissom her movements, how mellifluous her voice… I longed to return to that wonderful place, to remain there with her forever. "It's so beautiful," she had murmured. "If only we could stay here."

Now, in undoing the evil I myself had wrought, I had also erased the love from her heart. I was a stranger to her, and an enemy at that. She had no reason to trust or believe me. She could not open her heart to me. She was closed, distant, out of my grasp, a door shut fast by the inexorable hand of Time.

* * *

The treacherous Indian Vizier lay dead upon the princess' balcony, slain at last by my own hand. Should I have felt remorse, killing a sick old man? I felt only hot hatred for him and his black arts. I felt my blood pounding, tracing the words the foul wizard had burned into my mind while I was raw and torn, kneeling over my love's frozen form. I saw none of my anguish reflected in her face—she could feel nothing. She was dead. I had let her go.

His rank breath licked at my ear from the shadows across the room. _"The girl is unimportant."_

"Then it's true… he was a traitor." I looked up from the Vizier's corpse, shocked to be gazing into Farah's endless eyes—deeper and darker than any well, and as open as the ocean. But she—she was… not dead. Only lost.

I presented her with the dagger. "Take this. Return it to your father's treasure vaults. Guard it well."

"I owe you thanks." The princess bowed her head slightly in gratitude. Then looking me straight in the eye, she asked with eagerness in her voice, "But why did you invent such a fantastic story?" She smiled as she said it. "Do you think me a child, that I would believe such nonsense?"

I could not bear this torture any longer. A fantastic story… nonsense…! All that we had been through together, so near to death that survival could have been rebirth… the love we had nurtured and finally succumbed to… gone. There must be a way to make her feel our passion again!

Impulsively, I took her and kissed her. I knew very well how foolish it was to do so, but I knew with even more conviction that I needed her. I could live for days without water, but I could not last without her. Her golden touch was my sustenance. She laid a hand on my arm, gently. Warmth flooded through me—the heat of our arduous romance, so quickly fashioned, yet so deeply cut into my soul. Hope lit me aflame inside. Did she feel it too?

She shoved me roughly away, the insult clear on her face. "I said I owe you _thanks_," she said angrily. "You presume too much."

I knew then that it was hopeless. She would never remember. Time had taken her from me, robbed me of hope and love. I had lost her forever. Surrender carved a gaping hole inside me, a yawning maw to swallow me. Despair would be only a mist to fill it. If the emptiness consumed me, I would not care.

I looked down at the dagger in my hand and, sighing inwardly, I pressed and held the switch on its handle.

The world rushed past me in a now-familiar _whoosh_. This had snatched me out of Death's claws countless times. Now, it ripped me from her. I felt her warm lips again for an instant, then mine were once again cold and empty. I released the switch.

"—such a fantastic story? Do you think me a child, that I would believe such nonsense?"

I gave the cursed blade one last look. I thought of what it had given me: Sorrow. Death. Then life. I looked into her spirited eyes and saw what it had taken away: Love. "You're right," I said, tasting bitterness in my voice. "It was just a story." I handed Farah the dagger and turned to leave her.

"Wait!" she called. I looked up from my perch in the tree beside her balcony, refusing to let hope seep into my heart. "I don't even know your name."

A small, bittersweet smile pulled irresistibly at my mouth. "Just call me… _kakolukia."_

The last I saw of my love before sliding down out of sight was the expression of amazement gracing her features. The shock—the _recognition.

* * *

_

_ Kakolukia._

The secret word washed over Farah's mind. She had never told anyone of it. How could he know? Inhaling sharply, she gave a moment of serious consideration to the possibility: _could he have been telling the truth?_ His story was surely too fantastic to be real—but it was hardly less believable than the chance of him knowing such a unique Indian word… _her _word.

She rushed to the edge of the balcony, frantically searching for a glimpse of him among the rustling foliage.

But he was gone.


	3. Life

A/N: This chapter has been improved from reviews. Also, the dates have been changed to take Indian climate into consideration.

Halim is an Indian name which means kind, and Pitar means father.

* * *

Life

Gradually he vanished from my dreams, leaving quietly, but more quickly than I expected. I knew I could not hold on to phantoms and fantasies forever, nor could I chase wisps that come in the night, leaving naught but confused mists in their wake. I stopped wondering, stopped pondering a story too impossible to believe. After only two months, I realized I no longer thought of him. Real life settled easily back into place. I was the Maharajah's daughter; I had duties and responsibilities that left no room for fickleness of heart.

My father and mother expected me to marry soon, and would choose a suitor for me before my twentieth birthday. They allowed me a great luxury in this respect: if I expressed interest in a suitable man before that time, they would consider allowing me to marry him. I, as their only child, would carry on the royal bloodline. I had been preparing for it all my life, and now the time had come. Two months after the Persian ghost appeared on my balcony one misty September night, my nineteenth birthday arrived.

Suitors formed queues to try to win my hand—wealthy, influential men who had fought for the opportunity to enter the Maharajah's palace, whose parents had raised them and instructed them in the ways of charm and magnetism since they were small. On one occasion, they waited in an orderly row for my individual inspection, like melons being chosen at a market. Something about this vaguely unsettled me; the way they stood straight and stiff—fat or crumbling pillars—as I perused them at will, maintaining my crisp royal dignity and not revealing emotion. Cold... it was all so cold, impersonal. Marriage and love seemed to me strangers that had given each other a passing glance, and then continued walking.

I grew to dislike these husband-choosing assemblies. After each fruitless session, I would return to my parents and discreetly shake my head. None was suitable. None was for me.

One day, a man from the golden city of Jaisalmer arrived at the palace. I was summoned down to meet him; and so I came, looking beautiful, as always. They took tremendous care to ensure that I was attractive, ripe and succulent as a prepared dish, lest any man not desire me.

I raised my eyes demurely to the stranger's face, finding it warm with kindness. He was older than I, perhaps thirty or forty years of age, and he seemed to exude gentleness in low, constant waves; pacifying violence, soothing doubts, quelling turbulent thoughts, so that one could not help but feel at ease in his presence.

We made our formal introductions: Halim Pitar was a man of some influence in Jaisalmer, where he had lived contentedly, if somewhat blandly, all his life. He was not exceedingly wealthy, and he did not favour an extravagant lifestyle, but he held a quiet, stable position of respect in the amber-gold city since an elder cousin of his had gained the favour of my father. He had chosen not to wed, preferring peace and solitude to passion. My father inquired as to his change of heart, and Halim replied, as expected, that my beauty and grace and all number of other virtues had awoken a fire deep within him, or perhaps drawn him as irresistibly as a moth to a flame... I had stopped listening, for I knew what I must do. I would marry this gentle stranger—I would not be unhappy living beside him every day. He could grow to love me; he would bring me contentment.

My mother caught my wandering eye. I nodded, not smiling. Yes—he.

My parents approved of the arrangement. The wedding date was set for next November, the month of my twentieth birthday. In the meantime, Halim was invited to stay at the palace, to become better acquainted with us. With me. He was hesitant to leave his home, but was easily persuaded to remain in the palace, where we would be living after our marriage anyway. He promised to take me to Jaisalmer before the ceremony, to study its warm, dreamlike yellow hues, to watch the sky catch fire at sunset and the embers slowly die to black. I had been there once as a child, and did indeed wish to return to the city of flaming gold. I had skipped along the yellow sand and stone, straining to see the clouds ripped violently apart so far above me. Now, I could look upon the gilded rooftops with a woman's hot, keen eyes, and feel my heart swell and glow with the city.

I soon realized I liked Halim very much. At first, I felt only a blank, numb feeling of resignation, having fulfilled my duty to my country and chosen a husband. This slowly grew into a kind of mellow satisfaction as I realized I had made a wise choice. Halim was a most agreeable fellow; he was never cross with me, and doted on me as a father does his beloved daughter. Though never one for lavish displays, one of his greatest pleasures was giving me beautiful gifts, especially silk and imported treasures. One day he returned to the palace after an absence of several weeks with what seemed a small caravan of goods. "I have just come from a visit to Persia," he told me. "The cities are peaceful now, and I am well-respected there." His modest manner allowed any mild boasting to evade conscious detection. Moreover, it was hardly an exaggeration—Halim was respected for his kindness and generosity nearly everywhere he travelled. Including, it now seemed, the land of our enemies.

It could not be mere coincidence—ever since the mysterious Persian had visited me, speaking of a war which had never happened, my country began to view his as less and less of a threat. And now, barely five months after the event, the two great lands seemed almost on amicable terms. Was Persia's youngest prince responsible for this? I wondered if I would ever know.

Shortly after Halim's return, my father made a startling announcement to the members of his house. He believed it would be in our country's best interest to form a friendly alliance with mighty Persia, and was prepared to take bold steps in that direction. He had decided to invite the Persian nobles to visit our own palace as a gesture of good will, and they had graciously accepted. King Sharaman, his wife, and his sons and daughter would be staying here in the heart of India for a fortnight while the two leaders discussed diplomatic issues.

This news surprised all of us, but we were quick to agree that it was a courageously grand gesture, and a wise endeavour. Halim congratulated the Maharajah on his political cunning.

It was several hours before I realized precisely who would be visiting my home. In the six months since he had disappeared, I had thought of the Prince only a few times, fleetingly, never letting my mind dwell on him for more than a few moments. He had gone, and I had assumed I would not see him again. Now, it would be impossible for me to avoid him.

I had told no one the truth of the night he came to me. To explain the Vizier's death, I told people that he had suffered a terrible paroxysm close by my chambers and I had led him out onto my balcony, hoping the fresh air would revive him, but he had collapsed and fallen on a sharp edge. My story was believed without question. I had no reason to remember that night. Common sense urged me to forget it all. I was happy—I did not need him, he was not important. He had left me. Surely, he would never think of me again. I ought to dismiss the incident as peculiar, but insignificant.

Yet somehow, faced with the prospect of seeing him again, I found I could not.

I pushed past my misgivings, and tentatively allowed my mind to roam free. Just as I had secretly feared all this time, I found that it came to rest on him. Unprepared, I nearly lost my balance as a wave of mixed emotions rushed at me. Wonder—regret—sorrow—deep loss. I had known him for only a few hours! How could he have affected me so?

Though I revealed my feelings to no one, my anxiety grew greater with each day, so that I could not even tell whether I feared his arrival, or longed for him to come.


	4. Memories

A/N: Sorry for the horribly long update! I've had no time to work on this chapter until now, it's finally Christmas break. Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed, without you I might have given up. I'd like to address some of your comments:

**AbsoluteOmega**, you said that the Prince gives Farah the dagger twice—you'll notice in the game that she doesn't actually take it the first time, just says, "I owe you thanks."

**The Asylum of the Damned**: You're absolutely right, a seizure wouldn't explain stab wounds. Granted, the Prince didn't actually slash him _that _much, but I'm going to try and come up with a better story for Farah to tell.

**Kenta Wolf** (cool PoP fics btw!), you mentioned that in reality, Farah's marriage would be arranged. That's true, and I have adjusted the story accordingly.

A few notes on the Persian names in this chapter:

Ksathra: ruler

Farideh: delightful

Zuleika: brilliant beauty

Sohrab and Kaveh: hero names

The Prince is yet unnamed. I've been considering Dasras, which means handsome (XD!!)… but it's an Indian name, not Persian. Let me know what you think!

* * *

Memories

As I had anticipated, Farah lingered in my thoughts long after I left her. The sweetly poisoned knife that had pierced me then wore dull, losing its bitter edge and leaving me with only a gentle ache to soothe her memory. I knew it would not be possible to forget her, but surely I should be able to live as though I were a complete person, rather than a collection of jagged shards forming the empty hole of her image. Weeks, months passed, and still she never left my thoughts. At times, I tried to force her out, but just as insolent as ever, she refused to leave.

It was nearly six months since I had dabbled in the pools of Time. My family had noticed the changes in me; I was less brash, less sure of myself, more prone to melancholy. The youngest of my older brothers, Kaveh, told me I no longer boasted or praised myself, and that I was a greater man for it. Our elder brother Sohrab, closest to me not in age but in spirit, sought to understand the reasons for my transformation. I did not relate the events of that catastrophic day to him, as I had done with Farah, for I knew that even he, my closest friend, would hear it as an impossible story—nothing more.

Zuleika said nothing, only glanced at me with her usual expression of distaste. My sister cared little what happened around her. At only twenty-seven years old, she possessed the kind of loveliness spoken of in fable and myth, and was acutely aware of it. Her beauty was brilliant and intimidating, almost frightening to behold. She could wield it as a weapon or hold it high above our heads to taunt us. As children, our parents forbid us from touching her or allowing any harm to come to her, for fear of marring her exquisiteness. Yet much to everyone's amazement and distress, she had not married. Men wanted her, but did not love her; she was too great for them, too incredible and unattainable.

My father assumed I had been traumatized by the mere thought of my first battle, and that if the Indian vizier had proven reliable, I might have gained the honour and glory of a warrior rather than lose my well-deserved royal pride. With great difficulty, I succeeded in discouraging him from future attacks on India. Although he was not so brash as to accuse me of sympathising with the enemy, he made it clear that he would tolerate nothing less than total allegiance to Persia, no matter how gutless I became.

Ksathra, my eldest brother, called me a coward and sneered at me when my mother's head was turned, saying I ought to be still suckling at her breast and not wielding the sword which now wearied me so. His gentle wife Farideh was much kinder, offering soft words and once, a tear from her lovely eye. Although Ksathra was my elder by ten full years, Farideh was much closer in age to me. I had loved her long before my brother turned his greedy eyes upon her. When he saw that we cared for each other, he resented our happiness and snatched up my sweet Farideh for his own. Each salty tear she cried on their wedding day stung the ragged wound where she had been ripped from me.

The same had happened with Farah; Time had torn her from my fingers. When I received word that we were to be visiting her family, I could scarcely believe that Fate could be so kind. I was surely being granted another chance to love her and let her love me.

* * *

Our caravan reached Jaipur in early March. Indian commoners cheered as we rode through their streets; they were happy not to be attacked, I suppose. It was late in the evening when we arrived at Amber Palace. The Maharajah honoured us by allowing us to pass through his cherished palace gardens. I looked with wonder upon his magnificent home as hazy memories began to resurface; I recognized a certain corridor, I glimpsed a room of deadly spike traps, and once, I believe I saw a passage leading to the treasure vaults where all my adventures had begun. Yet a feeling of uncertainty was also slowly rising within me; something seemed different. Starting, I realized that the palace was not in the half-destroyed state, ravaged by my father's armies, in which I had previously encountered it. Its beauty was understandably enhanced.

As I viewed the palace with a growing feeling of familiarity, I discovered to my surprise that I was smiling. I must have smiled so little in the past six months, with my self-confidence shattered and my greatest joy torn away. My thoughts flew to Farah, and ecstasy rapidly blossomed within me. She was alive! I was almost painfully close to her, I was aching for her, I felt I could nearly touch her. I had to restrain myself from crying out to her. I looked up through the idly swaying trees, trying to recall how I had reached her balcony six months earlier.

Sohrab peered anxiously into my face. "Brother, are you… why, he's grinning!"

I laughed. My family must have thought me mad, but I didn't care. Every step brought me closer to Farah.

When the Maharajah's countless servants had finally made us comfortable, the night was too old for dry discussion, so we retired to our opulent chambers. My rooms were richly furnished and decorated with no expense spared. I lay in the luxurious foreign bed, feeling like an intruder. I knew that to sleep would be to dream of Farah, and for some reason I found it unbearable for her to be so close to me, yet accessible only in my thoughts. Tomorrow, I would see her again. Tomorrow was a hundred years away… surely it would come too late, and I would be a groaning old man; then I would die alone, without her… such dark thoughts lulled me to sleep and bled into my dreams. I slept restlessly, and in the morning awoke feeling troubled and apprehensive.

While my father and the Maharajah talked, our family was allowed to roam freely about the palace. It was a gesture of trust. I wandered around for some time, taking in the majesty and grandeur of his impressive home. To my dismay, I perceived no sign of Farah. I had no choice but to seek her myself, however bold that might seem.

I asked one of the servants where I could find her. He looked at me suspiciously; it was clear he didn't trust us Persians. Still, he courteously informed me that she had gone to the gardens earlier in the morning. Swallowing a rush of anxiety, I thanked him and hurried down to find her.

As I drew nearer to the gardens, my steps slowed. Irritated by my own cowardice, I forced my heavy feet towards the courtyard. This was no time to be nervous.

It took a bit of searching before I found her, in the centre of a small clearing. It was a quiet, hidden place. She was lounging on an ornately carved stone bench, reading a book. Her glossy hair was draped loosely over her shoulders, darker than onyx, smoother than water. "Farah—" The word fell out of my mouth in a queer half-gasp.

The princess's head jerked up in surprise. She rose too quickly, almost losing her balance; she appeared ashamed to be caught in such an undignified position. "You," she uttered, gazing at me as if entranced. She blinked. "I mean… pardon me, your highness." It must have been awkward for her to address royalty, so accustomed to being the one to whom others bowed.

I wasn't in the mood for formalities. I stepped closer to her. "Farah, it's me!" I started laughing and babbling at the same time: "I'm sorry I left you at your balcony, I should have stayed, I should have tried to make you remember, I—"

"Who _are_ you, exactly?" Farah interrupted. "I feel as though I've seen you before."

This wasn't beginning very well. She was supposed to remember me and run into my arms, and then I would carry her away and… and… marry her? All right, so I hadn't really worked that part out yet. But she had loved me once, and I was sure that she could feel that way again. Studying her face, I noticed now that she seemed somehow different—older, and, although I hated to admit it, less attractive than I remembered. I had coloured her image in my mind, painted her as a flawless angel, some impossible creature with Zuleika's beauty and Farideh's heart. I took a breath to clear my spinning thoughts. "Can you recall a time six months ago, when your disloyal vizier was exposed?"

She stiffened. "He brought shame to our house."

Perhaps mentioning the deceased old man hadn't been the best idea. "Yes, anyway, I am the Persian prince who, er, dispatched him."

"You… I knew it! You came to my balcony at night and told me a fantastic tale about the Sands of Time. You're the man who knew my secret word." Her eyes shone with wonder.

"I know much about you," I said quietly. "My love…" I reached out to her. She swallowed, but did not move, only stared at my outstretched fingers. Restraining myself, I gestured for her to have a seat on the stone bench. She did so, and I sat down beside her. "You told me that word." She shook her head obstinately. "It was no story," I pressed. She looked up at me, searching my face for something, some sign of deceit or ill intention. I knew that she would find none. "How else would I know that word? How could I have found the Dagger of Time?"

"You could have stolen it," she said without conviction.

"In which case, I would have gained nothing by returning it to you."

"Thief's remorse?" she suggested uncertainly.

She was getting weaker. I felt closer than ever to convincing her. "You were there, Farah. In the sultan's palace in Azad. Can't you remember?"

She squeezed her eyes shut.

_A deadly paradise…_

"Farah?" Concerned that I had frightened her, I tentatively touched her hand. She didn't pull away.

_A dagger—sand—his face, shouting my name—_

_His face—_

With a small cry, she snatched her hand away and stared intently into my face. She was trembling. "Sand," she whispered. "Sand everywhere…"

My spirits leapt. "The Sands of Time," I said, nodding eagerly. "They would have consumed everything, had it not been for us."

"They would have consumed nothing, had it not been for _you_ and your wretched pride," Farah retorted.

"You do remember!" I rejoiced, preparing to throw my arms around her. She crossed her own guardedly.

"I remember your _story_. Its authenticity is… questionable."

I groaned, more frustrated now than forlorn. "Farah, the dagger—"

"Although… sometimes…" I conceded to an impatient silence. Reluctantly, she continued. "I used to dream of sand, and… of you. And sometimes, I think I may remember something, but it could be just a dream…" She gave me a pleading look, then quite suddenly abandoned her self-consciousness and stated with confidence: "Water." I looked at her questioningly. "Golden light… a bathing pool, somewhere underground." Her lips twitched, and I realized she was suppressing a smile. "You were there, Prince." She ran a finger lightly across my cheek, as if reliving the memory.

"Farah? Is that you?"

Farah leapt up from the bench as a man appeared from behind some trees. "Halim!" she exclaimed shakily, trying to hide the guilt in her voice. I rose, placing a steadying hand on her arm, but she jumped away like a skittish animal.

Halim, the apparent cause of her panic, was a gentle-faced Indian man in his mid-thirties. After an awkward moment, he asked: "Aren't you going to introduce me, dear?" There was no suspicion in his voice; in fact, he sounded almost amusedly patronizing or fatherly. I supposed he was her uncle, or perhaps an older cousin.

The princess appeared too flustered to speak. I couldn't understand why she was so nervous; she hadn't done anything wrong. She turned to me. "This is Halim, my fiancé."

Everything inside me shivered, rapidly numb. I fell back onto the bench. _Fiancé? _It wasn't possible. She was mine!

Farah seemed to be nervously introducing me to her husband-to-be. I could barely hear her; I felt as though someone had dropped me on the peak of a mountain. I was confused and terrified and utterly unwilling to accept the reality of the situation.

Farah's usually golden-brown complexion had paled to a dreadful sallow hue. Halim was smiling, completely oblivious. There was nothing but kindness in his face; I could see that he was very fond of Farah, but did not love her. Yet he would marry her, and they would both be happy.

For a moment, hatred burned hot inside me. I loathed Halim. I wanted to kill him, to poison him in his sleep and make it look like he had died of old age. Nothing was fair. Fate would have her vengeance upon me.

The moment passed. I realized I was glaring fiercely at the confused but cheery middle-aged man. My poor Farah looked as if she might faint. All my endeavours had gone horribly wrong. I couldn't imagine anything worse happening, but decided it would be wise not to tempt Chance.

"Excuse me, your highness." I bowed and left.


	5. Dreams

**A/N:** Long note, I'm sorry, please bear with me. First of all, thank you Ren for threatening me until I updated… you don't know how much it helped.

**IMPORTANT:** I've merged the former chapter 6 ("Sand") with this chapter to keep the POV pattern consistent. (Odd chapters are Farah, even ones are the Prince.) Chapter 6 ("Captive") is **new**.

"Maitryi" is Indian for "friendship" (not very significant)

"Jaldi" is Urdu (Indian) for "quick"—I was looking for "faster," but this will suffice. Thanks Hannah!

I've been trying to find the city in which the Prince would have lived, but the exact time of TSoT is very unclear. Three possibilities are Persepolis, Shiraz, and Isfahan. If anyone knows their Persian history, please please give me a few tips.

Thanks for all the great suggestions of names for the Prince! I'm still trying to name him—I would most definitely rather not, as I prefer him as just "the Prince," but if the need arises, I'd like to have a name ready. The good people at Ubi's PoP forums have lots of ideas, and I've done some snooping around on my own. If I've made a mistake regarding Persian nomenclature, PLEASE don't hesitate to let me know! I am a white Canadian who has never been outside North America and I know nothing about Eastern lands except what I read.

Many people seem to like the idea of naming him the Persian or Arabic word for "Prince." I would like to stick to only Persian names. One problem with naming him "Prince," as DreamingAloud pointed out to me, is that realistically, a King and Queen would never name their son that. He'd be Prince Prince of Persia. But I might call him that anyway if I find a name I like… i.e. **Sanjar** (supposedly Middle Persian for Prince—thank you Ashti and tenran), my current name of choice. Other names that mean Prince are Amir and Shazadeh.

Shahbaz: royal falcon

Mehrang: colour of the sun (or colour of fog)

Rakhshan: flashing

Zain: (Arabic) beauty, grace

Dariy (meaning unknown)

Thank you all for your suggestions and reviews!

* * *

Dreams

He left me—again. As before, I had not believed him. But unlike then, the memories now haunted me ceaselessly. Had I imagined them slowly creeping into my mind? Had he somehow imparted them to me through the breezy caress of his hand? Or had I, as I was beginning to feel, truly lived them?

They seeped deeper into my consciousness, the sepia-toned visions with their urgent, threatening whispers, flashes of a terrific story—a desperate romance, purposeful seduction, loving betrayal…

Then too often, the memories would dissolve, slipping through my fingers like salt in water. Yet they continuously resurfaced, invading my thoughts and colouring my dreams. I fancied I could almost read them in his sea-green eyes as I slumbered.

The Persians remained with us for one month. I dreamed of the Prince and his sand-gold memories, my memories, nearly every night. I considered approaching him, but the humiliating incident with Halim was ever fresh in my mind. My fiancé had miraculously overlooked it; indeed, he had not even seemed to notice anything amiss between the Prince and me. Yet I dared not risk another such confrontation—nor did I wish to drive the foreign man even further from me.

After he left, I would sometimes lie awake as images of billowing sands burned across my closed eyelids. Ever more frequently, I dreamed of falling, of a horrible release, and always one last tender expression before Oblivion's cold embrace:

"_Kakolukia—"_

I would awaken with it on my lips; I feared I murmured it in my sleep. I only prayed I would not carelessly reveal my mother's secret word.

One night, my dreams were no golden recollections, but rather dark and deadly nightmares. I awoke violently, and the word came not as a murmur, but a scream. As I tried vainly to regain control of my breath, a servant flew into my bedchambers, with Halim near treading on her heels. Averting his eyes from my immodestly clothed form, he gasped, "My dear, what is the matter? You were shouting a strange word…"

I tensed. He should not know. "It was nothing, Halim."

"What could it mean?" he mused aloud. "Kalu… ka… what was it?"

"I don't know," I lied. "It was but nonsense from an unpleasant dream."

"Ah. Are you well, my pet?"

"I am now, thank you."

"Then I wish you a good night and sound sleep."

I nodded and turned from him, ashamed. He and the servant left.

I had lied to my dear Halim. Why hadn't I told him the silly word? Why did I feel I _could_ not? And how in Allah's name did the Persian stranger know?

After a fretful, sleepless night, I was convinced that I must have told it to him; but why? Even if his fantastic story proved to be no more than that, I needed some explanation from him.

But the Persians had left and would not be returning. Briefly I thought of my house travelling to his, but I knew that it was a foolish idea. My father was not pleased with the way negotiations between our countries had gone. I dared not ask him if I could speak to the Prince, for if I ventured on my own after that, it would be disobedient; whereas if I left quietly now, he might forgive my flightiness without needing to chastise me for disrespect as well.

I decided to leave in two days' time; I would need a full night's rest to begin the journey. In the meantime, I consulted the maps in the library to find the quickest route to Persia; I intended to overtake their caravan before they reached the country. I wrote a note to my family, asking their forgiveness and assuring them of my (highly indefinite) safety, but without stating my destination.

At last, the day of my departure arrived. I waited anxiously for the sun to set before slipping silently out to my horse, Maitryi, who I had prepared earlier. We rode out into the darkness.

I knew then how an animal escaped from our menagerie must feel. My freedom blossomed from within, thrilling every part of my body. I tasted the fresh night air and shivered with exhilaration, drinking in the stolen moment.

For days innumerable I raced the wind, but found no sign of the Persians' passage in the sandswept sameness. This was not possible; I had carefully studied the best maps, chosen the quickest route to Persepolis… a cold shudder ran down my spine as the thought crept into me that they may be travelling a different path—perhaps one better suited to their large caravan...

I became haunted by doubt and loneliness. Maitryi was my only comfort in the empty world. I urged her on, faster, ever faster. If need be, I would wait outside the gates of Persia for them. I had no desire to enter the country, only to speak with the young Prince. I needed only to make certain I arrived before them.

_Jaldi_, Maitryi. Ever faster. The sun slid from the sky, slothful, at odds to our desperate speed. My horse was growing weary and nearly stumbled. I halted and dismounted, wincing at the fiery sand beneath my thin, ornamented shoes. We rested for a few hours, ate a little, then resumed our journey when the moon rose.

We rode until dawn, watching the light chase away the stillness, faster, faster. I would not follow them into Persia, a foreigner and a woman alone. I did not like to think of what could happen if they found me. Fear and a peculiar longing pulled me onward as I thought of the Prince; he only could I trust.

The sun rose higher. I was thirsty and deeply exhausted, but did not stop. Maitryi began to slow. I allowed her to recover her strength for a short while, then urged her faster again. _Jaldi._ She snorted, protesting, made a feeble attempt at a canter, and then fell back to an ever-slowing trot. I dismounted again, discouraged and confused. The heat was muddying my thoughts. I tripped on something and fell on one knee, rolling onto my side to avoid injury. I lay there on the sand, feeling only sun and sweat and roughness, and watched as Maitryi slowly sank to the ground. She was tired, she was going to sleep. No… something wasn't right, she shouldn't be lying down. But I was so tired too; I just wanted to forget everything and let sleep take me. I saw Maitryi's eyes close.

I sprang up and went to her, screamed her name. She flinched, but did not move. I tried to shake her awake, but she was so heavy, and slippery with sweat. I couldn't think of what to do. Images cycled through my mind, _jaldi_, _jaldi_, sand and sun and a royal face. Swords, stone, crumbling, falling, shrieking voices, a cacophony of sounds I couldn't understand. A great rumbling from afar, growing louder and higher in pitch; it would overtake me soon…

And I saw them, a caravan of golden sand, dusty specks glinting in the light. They were coming to rescue me from the endless desert, or capture me, it didn't matter. I saw his face in my mind; it lingered, until I imagined I could see him near me, speaking words of nonsense to someone else. Blue and yellow danced in my eyes until there was nothing but cerulean sand.


	6. Captive

A/N: Please don't kill me! I know it's been an age and a half since my last update… after school finally slowed down, I got mono. I still have it but I feel better now and I wanted to finish this.

In this chapter I stole lots of lines from TSoT. Hooray for thievery!

"Sandhya" is an Indian name meaning "twilight." I read in one place that it's pronounced "San-thee-a," but I don't know if that's correct.

UPDATE: I think I fixed the problem of the Prince mysteriously not recognizing Farah. He now has reasons not to, which I will restate after this chapter if you don't catch them.

* * *

Captive

"Something in the sand, sir!" 

"A body… a girl!"

I peered through the lines of soldiers and servants, guiding my horse forward to investigate the commotion. There in the swirling sand lay two corpses – a horse and a young girl. But as I watched, the girl seemed to move her head. I pushed through the curious onlookers and shouted, "She's alive! Someone help her!"

Rather than stop the entire caravan, a few servants rode out to bring her back. They lay her on a wooden platform used to carry large goods. I fell back alongside it and finally got a good look at the girl. She was a little younger than me, and her skin was the burnt gold of an Indian. Red cloth was curiously wrapped around her body to form a sort of dress, almost indecently short but acceptable because of the heat. She was covered with sand – it filled her hair and clothes and had scratched red wounds on her body.

One of my father's men spoke up anxiously. "Sir, are you sure this is wise? What with the unsettled business, if the Maharajah discovered we had taken an Indian prisoner—"

Sharaman laughed. "One little girl in all the bustle of India will not be missed."

Yet despite my father's words, something about the foreign girl made me uneasy. Perhaps it was the faded gold lining her red skirts, or the smoky powder layered on her closed eyes, but she did not seem to me like just any "little girl."

For many minutes, she barely stirred. When she did awaken, it was only to utter nonsensical phrases and stare wildly at objects no one else could see. I knew that if my father learned she was unfit for servitude, he would leave her in the desert just as he had found her. I approached a nearby soldier. "The sun has maddened her," I told him. "Bring her water, and she may recover." He laughed most disrespectfully at me, then laughed louder at the indignation that inevitably crossed my face. "Waste our water on a little Indian rat?" He snorted. "If the sun has muddled anyone's pretty little head, highness—"

I scowled. "Finish that sentence and you'll find your own rations going to better use." I glanced at the girl, then back at him. He understood and soon returned with a small skin of water. I held it to the girl's dark lips, encouraging her to drink.

"Where is that rascal son of mine?" I looked up, startled, as a strong voice barked from up ahead. Some water spilled from the bag, and the soldier who had fetched it looked ready to strike me for my clumsiness. I hastily instructed two servants to administer it to the girl, and rode forward to answer my father's call.

Over the next few days, I saw little of the strange girl. My father wanted to discuss hypothetical battle scenarios with my brothers and me, to keep us sharp and prepared. I wondered if it had something to do with India – the withdrawn attack, the disappointing negotiations, or the captured girl. The latter fascinated me; I was sure I could feel her night-black eyes upon me as we rode. Once she had regained consciousness and coherence, they had loosely tied her to a pole – more as a symbol of her captivity than an actual means of preventing escape, since she had no chance of survival on her own. She was given a scarf for her head and face to keep off the harsh sun. Beneath it and her ragged appearance, she carried a sense of pride, importance even, and a kind of battered beauty that might once have been grand to behold. She held me hot under her gaze, sometimes so forcefully that it was difficult to tell who was the true captor.

We arrived at the palace of Azad in early June. It had been my father's intention to rest there for a while before returning to Persepolis. Even though the less direct route would take longer, the months were growing too hot for an uninterrupted journey home from Jaipur. I tried not to shudder as we retraced our steps – my family, of course, was unaware that all this had already happened in another time. Even though I knew perfectly well that the Sands were safe in India, I didn't welcome the thought of returning to that cursed place.

That night, I looked around my guest suite with an odd feeling of relief. Everything was intact and in place, with no eerie yellow clouds lurking in the corners or dreadful monsters tearing through the stillness. I had grown familiar to the half-destroyed appearance of the truly magnificent palace. Now, in a room as handsome as this, it was easy to let my anxieties dissolve into the sumptuous curtained bed. I slept soundly through the night.

The next day, I visited the sultan's famous menagerie. It was a wonder I had longed to see as a child. The exotic creatures were a terrific sight, pushing out memories of the nasty sand-possessed beasts.

"Tigers from India," a proud voice behind me stated. An Azad native was giving some of my family's entourage a tour of the zoo. I was surprised to see among them the girl from the desert. They were being generous to her – perhaps because of the state of our relations with her country. She looked sullen behind her dark veil, but her face smoothed into a more placid expression as she reached out and stroked the bars of the tiger's cage.

The Azad man moved outside toward the aviary. The heat was stifling, but I followed the group. The menagerie of Azad was a wonder famous throughout the world, and as a child I had dreamed of it and longed to see it with my own eyes.

A shriek cut the thick air. The Indian girl was glaring high up at one of the caged birds and yelling for her bow and arrow. I recalled that we had confiscated those weapons from her when we had first found her, while she was unconscious. The servants and guards attempted to calm her, but she only demanded that her weapons be returned. The creature was dangerous, she insisted, and must be destroyed. Bewildered, the servants called to me for help. When I reached the girl, she stopped struggling and looked at me intently. "You," she said, her voice quieter, but with the same urgent, commanding tone. "You remember."

"Remember what?" I gazed up at the bird, a splendid animal with dark grey-blue plumage and a wingspan of at least eight feet. The girl kept staring at me, but said nothing. She must have been more than a little dazed by the sun after all. Bemused, I asked her name.

A dark look crossed her features. She murmured, "Sandhya."

"Well, Sandhya, that bird is in a very large cage," I explained patiently. "It's not going to attack anyone."

"I'm not stupid, Prince," she spat. "I can see it's in a cage." A guard grabbed her wrist, ordering, "You will address his highness with the respect he deserves!" She sighed, suddenly looking tired. "You're right, highness. Of course it's quite safe. I don't know what I was thinking."

I told the servants that I would take her. They gladly assented. I led her away from the aviary to a small lily pond. "Sandhya, that's a pretty name," I commented. She had a pretty face to match it, although at the moment it was darkened by a scowl.

"You needn't be so patronizing," she muttered.

I was taken aback. "I was only trying to be friendly."

"I'm not crazy," she said, defensive now. If not, she was certainly moody. It was impossible to predict what she would do next. I suppose it was her prerogative as a woman, but it was becoming frustrating. "I was only dehydrated in the desert, that's all. I'm just as sane as you."

Ksathra would have gotten a laugh out of that last one. "I know you're not crazy," I assured her. It was true, more or less. She seemed lucid now, at least. After a few moments of silence, my curiosity got the better of me and I asked, "Why were you afraid of that bird?"

She gave me an odd look, as if searching for something, as if expecting me to know the answer. It soon changed to one of slight embarrassment as she explained: "In my land, there is a legend of a catastrophe which could turn all living creatures into terrible monsters. I – I saw a picture once of a mythical bird that looked just like that one."

She couldn't possibly be talking about the Sands of Time – the coincidence would be laughable. Yet the first image in my mind was of one of the vicious sand-birds I had fought in this same menagerie. I shivered, but smiled pleasantly at Sandhya. "I'm sure it's a very entertaining myth."

"Oh, it is," she agreed, smiling for the first time. "A fantastic story."

_A fantastic story. _I looked away, waiting for the painful memories to subside.

"Are you alright?" Sandhya touched my arm gently. I forced another smile. "I'm fine. But this sun is enough to drive a man mad! Er, no offense."

She laughed, a pleasing sound. "Shall we find somewhere a little cooler?"

* * *

My stay at Azad was unexpectedly made that much more enjoyable by the Indian girl's company. We traversed the palace together. I remembered a little of its design from my adventures with the Sands, but seeing the wonders of Azad in all their glory was nearly as impressive for me as it was for Sandhya. The week passed too quickly, and we were soon on our way to Persepolis. Rather than leave her ungraciously tied to a pole again, I made arrangements for Sandhya to walk by my side as we rode. She and I exchanged stories and traditions from our native lands. This was the first time she had ever left India – as an only daughter, her parents had sheltered her all her life. 

She was quite a spirited woman, her strong will kept in check only by her captivity. I couldn't help but notice that she was also rather beautiful – though why this should elicit a twinge of guilt was beyond my knowledge. Farah was long gone and I ought to forget her. But sometimes when Sandhya's smooth ebony hair blew gently behind her, I saw for an instant Farah's regal countenance in place of hers. I feared I would be doomed to torment myself with the princess' memory forever.

* * *

A/N: I guess I wasn't clear enough... the Prince doesn't recognize Farah because: at first she is covered in sand, cuts and bruises, and after (we assume) she gets cleaned up, she has a scarf covering most of her face. Also, she gives him a false name. I'm sorry I couldn't come up with anything better. Realistically, he's only seen this girl a few times, so it's not as if her face is actually ingrained in his memory (even if he may think so; he's only human). If you're wondering why she's concealing her identity, that will be explained in the next chapter. Sorry for the confusion and delays! 


	7. Escape

A/N: I really don't have any excuse for not updating other than, more important things have been going on in my life than fanfiction. That said, I will make a sincere effort not to wait another year before getting the next chapter up. Thanks as usual to Ren for her happy pestering and encouragement in the form of artwork, and to everyone else who's poked me and asked me what's taking me so damned long. I will finish this.

* * *

Escape

I posed in King Sharaman's harem room. I was to appear haughty, aloof, perhaps suggestive of aristocracy; I dared not laugh at the great irony of being a princess mistaken for a commoner, now trussed up as exotic royalty. No harem girl should be thinking amusing thoughts, except to amuse her visitors – we were mere decorations, girls to sensually lounge around and provide a pleasing atmosphere. It was a good existence for a captured slave – we conceded to the occasional fond touch, but little more. I was immensely grateful to the green-eyed Prince for arranging for me to reside in his father's harem rather than become a lowly servant like other prisoners. He told me they would not have allowed such a pretty face to go to waste scrubbing floors or serving food, and he might have been right, but I overhead him requesting that I be treated with respect. And so they dressed me in fine clothes and called me a foreign beauty, a mystery who never removed the veil that covered her face, and I lay among plush cushions and rich textiles, pretending to be, well, myself.

I remembered little of my sun-maddened days in the Persians' caravan, only yellow sand and a kind face. When I recovered my senses, I was relieved to discover that my identity had been disguised by a hundred small injuries, as well as the sand that clung like a persistent nightmare to my hair and skin. I obtained a scarf to cover my head and face – allegedly to protect me from the harmful sun, but in truth, it offered protection of a far greater sort: the Persian capture of an Indian princess could shatter the tenuous peace between our nations. So I called myself Sandhya, because my persona would be as vague and fleeting as dusk. Once I was able to speak to the Prince alone, I could reveal myself and regain my regal authority.

A rustle of curtains and a flash of blue solidified into the Prince. He smiled when he saw me, and then politely dropped his eyes. The rumours I had heard of his kindness had not been exaggerated – in addition to all that he had done to ensure my comfort in his home, he chose to offer me some modesty when he visited me.

"Any news from India?" I asked.

He rolled his eyes, but smiled. "India, India, always India. Is my country not enough for you?" He feigned a hurt look, with the faintest hint of honesty showing through.

I tapped one slippered foot, making frustratingly little noise. Let him think what he may – silk pillows did not make me any less of a prisoner.

He sighed and told me the gossip I always asked after. "The princess' betrothed is concerned, as usual. The wedding is less than a month away and still there's no sign of the girl. No doubt he worries she's done something foolish like eloping for love."

"No doubt? Has he _said_ that?" I interrupted.

"Well, he's nearly old enough to be her father," the Prince replied, arrogantly scornful. "Surely a woman of her grace and stature could do better; she's probably found a young fellow more suited to her."

I crossed my arms. "She chose to marry him, you know. Did it ever occur to you that she might actually like him?"

He had the audacity to laugh. "Of course not. Everyone knows she only settled for him because he was the least worst of them. And if she was that fond of him, why did she leave? No, _I_ think she's gone and found a handsome prince to fall in love with."

"Out. Get out."

He laughed again. "Really, Sandhya."

I glared.

"You can't order me around in my own house!"

He was childish but correct. I relaxed my brow and uncrossed my arms, lounging once more on the cushions.

"Why do you like him so much?"

I looked up and saw that the Prince had sat down beside me. "Because he's kind to her. He loves her, you know."

"Of course he does – she's young, pretty, and has a country to offer."

"No, it's more than that." He waited for me to continue, but I was savouring Halim's earnest eyes and low voice calling me "dear."

We talked of other things until he went to attend to some matter. I wished for my fiancé and wanted to cry, but knew I couldn't. And so I posed.

The days passed idly and I became more and more restless as my wedding date neared. I hadn't felt so helpless, so fruitless, since the listless time judging suitors before Halim arrived. Back then, I thought sometimes of the Persian prince who visited my window – the same man who now visited me in the harem room almost every day, unaware of whom he was speaking with. I wondered why I'd found him so mysterious then; he was just a spoiled young prince with a good heart hidden somewhere among the mounds of ego. All the wondrous things had been said to the Indian princess; he made no mention of sand or daggers to me now. I had come to Persia because my curiosity about that strange night was interfering with my ordinary life; now I saw that the man who so fascinated me before was quite ordinary too, as far as royals go. He had put behind him the stories of magic and adventure, and I realized it would be childish for me not to do the same. Although I found myself unexpectedly enjoying my stay in his home, it was only a matter of time before I found a way to leave.

One clear September night, I lay in the dark of the harem room thinking of my home and family. I wondered when I would see my father's wise, creased eyes or feel my mother's smooth brown hands. My thoughts were interrupted by a sliver of light that brought life to the vivid colours in its path as it grew wider. Looking towards the source, I saw the Prince's dark form fill the half-opened doorway as torchlight flickered behind him in the corridor. He gestured for me to come with him.

As I rose to follow, one of the girls stirred behind me, wakened by the light. I turned to see her smiling at us; knowing what the look on her face meant, I smiled awkwardly back, then hurried out of the room.

Offering me his cloak and his arm, the Prince led me through the cold stone palace. Orange firelight drew harsh, shaky shadows on the walls, but aside from a few guards, everyone was asleep and silent. I asked where we were going. He put a finger to his lips and pulled me up yet another flight of stairs.

I caught a glimpse of something sparkling just before we emerged into open air. We were on a small balcony little bigger than the one adjoining my bedroom in India. It was the first clear night after days of rain. The stars shone fiercely defiant in the black sky, and every surface glimmered wetly. As we walked to the edge of the balcony, a marvellous sight stretched before us: miles of rippling desert, across which lay my home. The sheer vastness of all that sand, grey in the moonlit darkness, weighed upon my spirit. So far away from home, the dunes echoed, so far, so far.

"Isn't it glorious?" The Prince gazed up at the brilliant stars, oblivious as always. It was only natural that he should feel such pride for his kingdom; surely he would understand that I felt the same way about my own land. The time had come for me to return there.

"Prince," I began, "you've been nothing but kind to me since I came here, and I want you to know that I deeply appreciate that." I touched his hand as it lay upon on the balustrade. "But I'm restless here. I don't want to stay a slave girl forever." I looked up at him then, knowing the desperation in my voice was matched in my eyes. "I was hoping you could do something for me."

"I know what it is you're asking." The clear words were spoken with discomfort. "And I understand why… I've thought about it myself sometimes." I took the embarrassment in his sideways glance to mean he sympathized with my need to leave, even though he didn't want me to go. "But I don't know if I can give that to you."

I grabbed his arm like a begging child. "Please, all I'm asking is—"

"I—I don't love you, Sandhya."

My brow moved confusedly. "You don't have to _love_ me to—" His expression wrinkled into a puzzlement equalling my own. "What is it you think I want?"

The horrified shame on his face betrayed his thoughts. "You spoiled pig!" I spat, and left him to the beautiful night sky.

Seething as I ran through the halls, I knew I had to leave immediately. I couldn't risk him telling anyone what had happened. I would return to Halim, who was neither silly nor arrogant and possessed the ability to look beyond himself once in a while. Even if he was only marrying me for shallow reasons, he treated me well and I could have a happy life with him.

Fortune took pity on me and I found my way back to the harem room with relative ease. It was only in the heat from the sleeping bodies that I realized I still wore the Prince's blue cloak. I took it off and filled it with snacks enjoyed by the palace's residents and guests – bowls of fresh fruit and sweet bread. There would be enough to keep me alive for the journey home. What I really needed, however, was—

"Thirsty?"

I nearly dropped the bulging load as I turned around. A girl looked up at me from the floor, drowsiness hooding her pale eyes – the same light sleeper who had woken up earlier. As I stared, frozen with guilt and fear, she repeated, "Is he thirsty too?"

I looked down at the food in my arms. "Yes," I answered. "He sent me down here to fetch him a snack."

She made a disgusted noise that dissolved into a yawn. "Typical royalty, treating everyone like their slaves. I don't know what you're getting out of this—" she gestured vaguely at me to signify my midnight venture with the Prince – "but just remember that you're better than a common servant. Don't give him any more than you need to."

I nodded and remained standing there for a few seconds before she reminded me where the water was. I took a full pitcher and a cup to look unsuspicious, hoping they kept skins in the stables – my last place to visit.

Creeping down to where the horses were kept wasn't difficult in my soft slippers, although when I reached the stables, the dampness seeped into my feet and chilled me from the inside. But the air was humid and warm and I knew my shivering was caused by fear, not cold. I was so close to escaping—

"Oi," said a voice – the kind I could picture smiling through crooked yellow teeth. "Where are you going tonight, pretty?"

My body turned to ice. "Away."

"I don't think the king would like one of his birdies to fly away now, do you? He ought to have clipped your wings a little shorter." Rough hands pushed my arms together behind my back and a man's breath warmed my neck. I shivered. He felt it and laughed the slow, creaking laugh of a man with power over another human. I began to worry then.

"Oh, I'll make sure birdie gets safely back in her cage," he grinned. "The king takes good care of his pets." His mouth was close enough that the moisture from his saliva was beginning to wet my skin. I heard a quiet whimper, my own, and that was when I knew I had only a fool's hope.


	8. Friend

A/N: Well, here I am at university, keeping busy for the most part. But I still find time to write my fanfiction! I will not abandon ye... even if it means sacrificing a few chapters of psych reading. The textbook is boring anyway.

Tell me what you think; criticism is appreciated.

* * *

Friend

The air chilled as Sandhya rushed past me and down the stairs. I stood alone under the bright, accusing stars as questions pressed at me: How could I have arrogantly misjudged her so, and what did she really want? Since we'd met in the desert, she had struck me as fairly distant and guarded. This sudden display of intimacy confused me – the desperation in her usually strong eyes looked out of place. As fond as I had grown of her company, she was still a captured slave, not a guest in my home. I had tried to treat her well; what more could she need from me?

I shook my head and hurried to catch her, but she moved quickly, and soon not even the sound of her passage remained. She was gone.

Sighing, I returned to my room. A certain incident kept pestering the edge of my memory – an unwanted kiss on a balcony – but I refused to think further on it. Let the unhappy past remain undisturbed.

The next morning, I rose early to visit Sandhya in the harem room. But when I arrived, she wasn't there, and none of the other girls knew where she was. One of them, a tall girl with light eyes, said she hadn't seen her since Sandhya had brought me my snack last night. I told her she hadn't brought me anything, and the fair-eyed girl laughed. "There's no use pretending, Prince," she said, her tone teasing. "Sharaman's youngest is a man after all." The other girls giggled; some blushed. I reddened along with them.

I asked as many servants and guards as I could find if they had seen Sandhya, but she had only ever rarely left the harem room, and no one seemed to know who she was. Finally one guard mentioned that a dark Indian girl had been caught stealing the night before. While I doubted she could be the scowling thief he spoke of, it was the closest match to Sandhya's description yet.

I had never visited the palace dungeons before. After passing through the torture chambers of Azad, some part of me refused to acknowledge that my house was no better. Fortunately, the place looked mostly empty. With no war, there were few people to punish.

When I saw her, crouched in the corner of a small cell, I barely recognized her. All the warmth that had grown in her eyes since we became friends was gone. Her sharp eyes were red and swollen from crying, but fiery with anger. She glared bitterly at me, shouting, "Get away, I don't need you!"

I approached the bars of her cell cautiously, as one does a dangerous caged animal. Sandhya's rejection caused a troublesome sting. "Why did you try to run away?"

Those burning eyes. "I don't belong here. I am no servant." And in that moment I saw the pride in her long neck and hot stare. How could we have ever tried to restrain her? I knew that pride; she was no servant.

"Guards, release her immediately." As they opened the gate, she didn't rush out or grovel like a common prisoner. She walked deliberately toward me with her chin pointed high. "I'm sorry," I said, trying to fit in earnestness with the wonder in my voice. She gave a small, hard nod, and with that, she was a harem girl no longer.

We went out into the gardens to discuss arrangements for her departure. I had grown quite fond of her and would be saddened to let her go; something drew me inexplicably to the dark Indian girl and her fiery spirit – something that I hoped was beyond her considerable resemblance to Farah. Despite the brevity of our encounters, no woman had ever haunted my thoughts as Farah did; even as I vowed to forget her, my mind if left to wander still came to rest on her. No matter how much I busied myself with palace life during the daylight hours, she still visited my dreams unbidden. Some part of me knew I had befriended Sandhya because she was a reminder of my lost love, but I told myself it didn't matter: I knew Farah was gone forever, while Sandhya was here now.

Until she returned to India, that is. She must have possessed an extraordinary love for her country to miss it so. We both knew she could have a good life here, doubtless better than anything an Indian commoner could hope for, and yet she insisted on the necessity of her return.

I persuaded her to stay a few more days while we made arrangements for her return. My father wanted to turn it into a political move – Persians find a lost Indian girl in the desert and graciously return her to her country. In the meantime, she would sleep in one of the more lavish guest rooms, and she was free to roam the palace grounds as she pleased. She thanked us, but with a curtness that made the others mutter that someone in her place ought to show more gratitude.

That night, there was a knock on the door to my bedchambers. I was surprised to see Sandhya standing outside – she had never visited me before, and I didn't think she even knew where to find me. She said she had asked the harem girls. They would draw their own conclusions, but it didn't matter. I invited her in.

She was quiet for a moment, staring at the cushion beneath her. Then she looked at me and said softly, "Thank you."

"For what?" I asked.

"You're the reason I'm not sleeping on stone tonight, Prince. I don't know why you've protected me, but I want to thank you." Her expression was one of sincerity – nothing like the furiousness I saw there last night or this morning.

"To be honest," I began, "You remind me of someone – a friend I haven't seen in a long time." A flash of Farah's shadowy eyes.

She went on: "And I want to apologize for last night. I was rude."

I flushed. "I was stupid." I caught her eye and we both smiled.

"So… any news of India?" she asked. It had become something of a joke between us – I knew she always desired news, and she knew I would tell her if anything of interest happened, but she still asked constantly.

"Why, yes," I said, recalling a bit of information I had overheard today. "The search for the missing princess is continuing, but her betrothed is giving up on the wedding."

Sandhya's eyes grew wide and then froze.

"Yes, it certainly is a pity. For him, at least – I hope she's happy with her new lover." I laughed.

"Halim…"

"He's going to have to find a different path to greatness. Too bad he's a little overripe for glorious battles."

"Don't you understand?" There was fire in her eyes again, but were those… tears, as well? "I—Farah loved him."

The smirk left my face and voice. "Why do you care so much? You're far removed from the lives and romances of royalty."

A tear dropped from her cheek onto my silk pillows. "Prince, I have to tell you something."

The first conclusion my mind jumped to was that Sandhya was a servant in the Indian palace who had somehow become close with the princess. I confess my heart beat a little faster at the prospect of an indirect link to Farah. I took her hand in mine and waited for her to continue.

She looked uncomfortable. "I'm not a commoner. I'm actually… rather important in my country."

My hand stiffened against hers. We had captured someone important? This could be disastrous for political relations. "On behalf of the kingdom of Persia, Sandhya—"

"No, I lied, that's not my real name. I'm Farah."

I shivered. No. Of course not. It was a common Indian name.

"I'm the Maharajah's daughter."


	9. Remember

A/N: Holy camels, Kat didn't wait six months to upload a new chapter? The world must be ending. At least you may find some entertainment here before the apocalypse. (I actually wrote this right after chapter 8, but I let it simmer for a little while and did some editing until I liked it better.)

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Remember

Something in the Prince's face was perhaps less shocked than it might have been. I pressed his hand where it lay frozen in mine. "I'm sorry I had to deceive you. I couldn't let anyone know that you had captured a princess."

He waved dismissively and continued staring me. "May I?" he asked, gesturing toward my veil. I nodded and he removed it with an odd sense of reverence, looking at me with awe. "It _is_ you." Then he began to laugh – an eerily slow, absurd laugh. "Of course, I knew it was you. It had to be you. But I thought it was too wonderful to be true. And… I knew you would never believe me anyway." His head dropped suddenly.

I placed my finger under his chin and raised his gaze to mine, concerned at the sorrow apparent there. "What's the matter?"

He shook his head. "I already tried once. There's no use."

"Tried what? I don't understand, Prince."

"Farah…" Half a smile played with his lips before a look of pain crossed his features. "No." His voice was firmer now. "It's in the past."

Very well. "I don't know what is troubling you, but there's something I wish to speak with you about." Now that the time had finally come, I found the words heavy and clumsy in my mouth. It had been so long since he had told me his magical tales… goodness, over a year now. "Some time ago," I began, "Last September." I shivered as the hazy memories from those peculiar days and nights floated through my mind.

The Prince's eyes were wide. "Yes?"

"You told me some strange things," I said hesitantly. "At first, I didn't believe you."

"The Sands of Time," he whispered, eagerly grasping my hands.

"Your stories…" My heart thumped. I felt like an excited child. "Were they true?"

He nodded solemnly. "Every word."

"Then why can't I remember?" I cried. It was unfair. "I have only bits and pieces, fleeting images in my dreams, while you retained the whole of it."

"I held the dagger, so I controlled time when I reversed it," he explained.

"You never should have disturbed the Sands. My family kept them safe for thousands of years before you—"

"I don't need to be lectured, Farah," the Prince snapped. "I know all too well the consequences. I lived them."

"As did I," I countered. "Or so you say." I sighed. "It's no use. I still dream of sand as if it's this great vague event. It's like having a word – no, a whole book – eternally on the tip of your tongue without ever being able to remember and speak it. At most I can see a few blurry pages. It's unbearably frustrating."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I would have taken you with me if I could."

Poor Prince. He had been much younger then; I could see that now. I squeezed his hand. "We're safe now. I just wish I could remember it like you do."

He murmured, "There is much I wish for."

I shifted uncomfortably, glad he wasn't meeting my gaze. "And you promise you didn't make any of it up?"

He nodded.

"Then we really did…"

A small smile. "Yes."

I looked down, embarrassed. "I'm an engaged woman."

"Not anymore," he reminded me gently.

Tears began to well in my eyes again. Our wedding would have been next month; it was no wonder Halim had given up hope. "Do you think it's too late?"

"Too late for…"

"To marry him, of course." I glanced at him suspiciously.

"Oh… of course. Her—your—fiancé has already moved out of the palace and declared a life of bachelorhood. He claims not to trust flighty youth any longer."

"That's not fair," I protested. "I could be dead, or kidnapped."

He shook his head. "Princesses don't just disappear without any explanation or ransom note unless it's of their own accord."

"I left a note," I offered.

"Oh yes, the note – a hopelessly vague little thing that served only to fuel the rumours that she had eloped with a romantic young nobody." He gave me a look that meant, I should have known better.

"I hadn't intended to be away for very long; I only wanted to speak with you and sort myself out."

"And have you?"

"Well, yes, I suppose I have." What else was there to be said?

The Prince was quiet for a minute before asking, "What will we tell them when you return?"

I sighed. "Right now it seems the best idea would be to go along with the elopement story and tell them it didn't work out."

"And we kind Persians saved you when you got lost on the way back home?"

"Sounds fine to me." Except for the part where I was left without a husband.

The Prince placed his hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry about your marriage."

Even as guilt washed over me, I whispered, "I didn't really love him."

He respectfully said nothing; I could only imagine his thoughts.

"But it would have been a good life," I explained, tears finally escaping. "I know I would have been happy and secure. It's how things should have been. I've always been told that. And now I've ruined everything." My head fell onto his shoulder, wetting his tunic.

"Now, that's not true," he said. "There are plenty of men who will want to marry a nineteen-year-old princess."

"I'll be twenty next month," I said through sobs. "My country needs an heir."

"Nineteen, twenty – the point is, you're a beautiful young woman and any man would be lucky to be in Halim's place."

"You really think so?" I sniffed, looking up at the Prince through matted hair. I must have looked awful: a dignified noblewoman reduced to a tear-streaked heap. But just then, with his compassionate face above mine, I didn't care. I suppose that's why I let him kiss me.

Before I realized what was happening, his hand was caressing my neck, slipping down to touch… my amulet?

And that's when it happened. I _remembered_ kissing him, in a golden pool in dream-lit caverns. I remembered the touch of his fingers amazingly gentle on my skin. I remembered how heavy his sword was when I took it while he slept, and how powerful I felt with the Dagger of Time in my hand. I remembered the miracle of time reversing at my command. I remembered running out of sand and trying desperately just to hold up the Prince's sword as a grotesque monster loomed above me. I remembered hanging onto the Dagger for my life as the Prince fought them off around me. I remembered him screaming my name. I remembered fear, blood, _kakolukia_, falling – and no more.

I gasped and broke free of the Prince. He clutched my shoulders, alarmed. "I'm sorry! What's wrong?"

"You mean you didn't feel that?"

"Feel what? Farah, what happened?"

"I… remembered," I said shakily, before collapsing into his arms.

* * *

The Prince let me rest in his bed a while until the lingering dizziness wore off. Crouched beside me, he asked anxiously, "What was it like?" 

"It was like a dream, only so much more real. I really _lived_ those past few hours. How long were we…?"

"No more than a few seconds." He grew excited. "I wonder if you could remember more."

"I think that's enough of the past for now," I grimaced.

The excitement vanished from his voice: "Are you alright?"

"Yes. Just a little uneasy." As I laid back and closed my eyes, I felt him reach out and tentatively stroke my hair. He was really rather sweet, for a self-important prince.

I opened my eyes, fingering the chain of my amulet. "Maybe we could try again."

"I would like that," he said, delight shining in his eyes and voice. He truly had loved me once. Joining me on his bed, he reached to touch the precious link to the Sands. I swallowed and tried to brace for whatever might happen.


	10. Epilogue

A/N: If some of the names in this chapter sound unfamiliar, check back to chapter 4. They're minor Persian characters.

**Thank you** to everyone who reviewed and/or yelled at me to keep writing, especially Ren. Hope you enjoyed it!

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I think the moment I knew Farah loved me was when, during our fervent efforts to reproduce her vivid remembrance, the chain of her amulet broke and the medallion tumbled out of my hand and onto the floor. When I moved to reach for it, she pulled my hand back and pressed me to her. That was when I knew the past didn't matter; I had her now.

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Epilogue

The Prince returned to India with Farah, where they were wed shortly before her twentieth birthday. The story went that they had fallen in love after he had saved her out in the desert a few weeks previously – an account confirmed by the Persian royalty and by Farah herself. King Sharaman gave the young couple his blessing, pleased with the friendly relations between their countries. The Maharajah and his wife shook their heads at their daughter's foolishness, but were more than content to have a Persian prince as their son-in-law.

Sharaman's eldest son, Ksathra, was tragically killed during a violent argument. Upon the king's death, Ksathra's younger brother Sohrab took the throne, and took the widowed Farideh to be his queen. The friendship between King Sohrab and his youngest brother strengthened the peace between the countries they ruled.

Farah never fully remembered the events concerning the Sands of Time, but she learned to accept the Prince's story. More importantly, she knew she loved him regardless of what had happened before. The two enjoyed a long and happy reign over India, with the Hourglass and Dagger locked safely away until the end of Time.


End file.
